


Dear Harry (A letter to a dead boy)

by smileformemylovely



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Don't read if triggered, I think I just needed to write this, Louis POV, M/M, harry death, suicide warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5239244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smileformemylovely/pseuds/smileformemylovely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis writes a letter to Harry. </p><p>TW: Suicide</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Harry (A letter to a dead boy)

I keep texting you. 

Little things like: "What do we need from the store?" 

"I saw this shirt and thought of you, so now we own a shirt with a frog tap dancing on it." 

"I'll be late today, we should just order Chinese." 

I should cancel your number. I keep paying the phone bill. And I do that stupid rom com thing where I call your number to listen to your voicemail, just to hear your voice. I haven't listened to your message on my phone. I can't. 

I woke up today and didn't wonder where you were. That's progress. 

Apparently. 

I started packing some of your things away. Not your sweaters, I still wear those to bed. But your suits, your books, your little tchotchkes you got from flea markets. Your journals. I can't read them. That's progress. 

Apparently. 

Band's still going strong. We cancelled the tour, but we're recording the album. It hurts. I break down in the recording booth. 

I did my first solo interview without you here. With People. I told them everything. I did it with out crying, as I told them our story. I waited til I could cry in the bathroom. It's better then the first interview we all did with out you. No one made it through that. Niall started with tears in his eyes. I didn't say anything. So that's progress. 

Apparently. 

I started seeing a therapist. I started going to a grief support group. I started spending weekends with my mum. She wants me to move up there. But I can't leave our flat. Can't leave our bed. My therapist thinks I should, because I can't use the master bath anymore without flashbacks. I use the guest room. Even when Zayn sleeps over. 

He sleeps over a lot. The first couple of weeks, when I couldn't leave our bed, he made sure I ate, I showered, I went to your funeral. Your mum hugged me for ten minutes. They wanted me to speak, but I couldn't find the words. The boys and I sang for you. Infinity. It didn't sound right. 

We didn't go to the wake. Liam dragged us to a bar and we toasted you and I got shit faced and broke a glass. 

Everyone wants to know why. Why. They look at me like I know why. W-H-Y. I see it in their eyes. I don't know what to say. For the first time in my life, I don't know what to say. Because I don't know. I don't know why, I don't know why you ended up sprawled across the bathroom rug with an empty bottle of sleeping pills clutched in your hand. 

I relive that everyday. Your pale skin matching the floor. Your curls in your face. Your tongue peeking out between your blue lips. My screams ricocheting off the walls. The paramedic feeling for a pulse and shaking his head when they didn't find one. The sheet covering your body. 

I search for the W-H-Y everyday. I read about the signs of suicide online and realized you matched every single one. I wished I'd seen it sooner. 

Does it really matter now? 

I wander a lot. Drive to different villages and park and wander. I talk to you. My feet lead me and I get lost. 

I visited the place we got engaged. The rock overlooking that castle. Our initials carved into a tree. Your shaking hands putting the pearl in my hand. 

I wear your ring around my neck all the time. I buried you with mine. That, your song writing journal, your necklaces. 

I buried you. I put you in the ground. Only it wasn't you. You were gone. I touched you and instead of burning me, you made me frozen. You were gone. You could fly. Finally. 

I buried you. 

I don't blame you. I think sometimes I want to. But I can't. You were in pain. I couldn't see it. 

I couldn't tell you why. 

My therapist told me I can't blame myself. I can't not blame myself. 

I think I'll listen to the message now. 

I think I'll read your journals. 

Try to use the master bath. 

Try to sing your songs without crying. 

Wake up and know you aren't here. 

Wake up and figure out how to live without you. 

Closure. 

That's what this letter is for. To help me find closure. It's progress. 

Apparently. 

I hope you're happy. I hope you aren't in pain anymore. I hope I'll see you again, Harry Styles. 

I love you,  
Louis

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr at thesummertimesandthebutterflies.tumblr.com xx


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